


Six Days, Two Weeks, Nine Hours

by Red_Chapel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexuality, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-02
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-12-16 21:33:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/866851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_Chapel/pseuds/Red_Chapel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six days of bliss, two weeks of hell, and nine hours to tear it apart and put it all back together again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Days, Two Weeks, Nine Hours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [serissime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serissime/gifts).



> Beta'd by the splendid **splendens**.

Sherlock inhaled deeply, felt the air expand his lungs. Pictured oxygen molecules flooding the bronchioles, filling the alveoli, passing into the blood, latching onto red cells, and those cells travelling throughout his body. He was distracted for an instant when he felt the push, the pain. Then he was again coursing through his own arteries, drowning in his own blood, one cell and many, so present he was nearly gone.

‘How’s that feel?’

Sherlock didn’t have words to respond, only exhaled enough to groan or moan, he didn’t know how it would be interpreted. It must have been taken as approval, acceptance, because the push started again, the pain grew as it moved deeper within him.

‘Good, yeah? God, you feel good.’

John’s breath on his back, John’s hands over his own, John’s body folded over him, pushing inside of him, the reason his blood rushed so fast through his veins.

‘So tight and hot. Amazing.’ A whisper. A parody of praise.

‘God, Sherlock…you feel so good.’

Sherlock squeezed shut his eyes and willed that to be true.

 

* * *

 

It was true; Sherlock knew it was. He only needed proof. Well, more proof, something that went beyond his own reasoning and surety, the type Scotland Yard would accept. The sort of proof to justify a warrant, make an arrest, secure a conviction.

So, knowing the truth—that Ben Carver was a thief and a liar, not the persecuted innocent he had thus far successfully claimed to be—Sherlock had journeyed with John not to Carver’s Knightsbridge home, but to the quiet suburban house from which he ran his business to find material proof.

Under cover of darkness they had successfully broken into the house, located the stolen art they sought, and slipped back out as silently, leaving no sign of their presence. And then, while Sherlock kicked and battered at the back door, John hurled bricks at the windows. As dogs the length of the street barked madly and lights in the surrounding houses came on, they took flight.

They didn’t slow until they heard sirens distantly closing on the house they’d just burgled, at last giving the police sufficient reason to enter Carver’s suburban hideaway, warrant be damned.

‘That was insane’, John panted. ‘Brilliant, too, of course’, he added, ‘but mostly utterly insane.’ Sherlock grinned at John’s praise and ignored the rest. ‘You’re completely mad’, John stated, moving closer to pull at Sherlock’s lapels. ‘And I love you.’

As Sherlock buried himself in the kiss, he wished this were the love he had wanted.

 

* * *

 

‘You do want this, don’t you, Sherlock?’ John, inches away, a hand hovering at Sherlock’s shoulder. ‘Please tell me I’ve not got it wrong. Tell me you’re not about to punch me and throw me out the window.’

Two minutes ago John had set down the kettle he’d just filled, marched up to Sherlock, and delivered his speech, a dizzying maze that began with assurances of sobriety, journeyed through pained examinations of his sexuality, skirted public opinion and filial tribulations, flirted with impressions of Sherlock’s desires, and finally rushed headlong into a declaration of love.

‘Not just the friendship kind.’

And now John’s hand settled on Sherlock’s arm, and Sherlock’s flesh was fire and ice at once.

‘Sherlock?’ John laid his other hand along his jaw, watched Sherlock’s eyes fall shut at the touch, saw the tentative pleasure suffuse his face.

‘I am right’, John said. Sherlock opened his eyes to John’s smile. ‘You do want this.’

Sherlock was still attempting to dissect John’s monologue. Why had John said those things? Why did his hand rest against Sherlock’s cheek? Why were his eyes practically dancing in the light from the overhead fixture? He groaned inwardly at the ridiculously romantic thought. Reason; he needed reason and a level head.

Reason officially left Sherlock Holmes at 4:16 on a Tuesday afternoon in May. That was when John Watson first kissed him.

 

* * *

 

For six days, Sherlock revelled in the love that he’d ages ago excised wanting from his life.

Six days of John’s kisses: warm, sometimes hesitant, often prolonged, and always welcome.

Six days of John’s arms, strong and firm, pulling Sherlock into an embrace, resting on his shoulders or about his waist.

Six days of John’s hands holding Sherlock’s own; of John’s voice speaking a new music; of John’s eyes dancing in the light, and this was no longer ridiculous to think of, but a fact.

Six days of contented companionship turned to bliss.

Six days.

 

* * *

 

John’s hands were on Sherlock’s face, directing his head down slightly to meet him in a kiss, not hesitant, not gentle. This was a certain love, and Sherlock returned it as well as he knew how. He opened to John, let himself be drawn in, explored, tasted, exploring and tasting in return.

And then John’s hands were moving, exploring Sherlock’s body as his tongue had explored his mouth. A gentle stroke down Sherlock’s chest; up, firm, smooth. Down again to encircle his waist, swerve up to his shoulders, press closer. Sherlock shifted his balance, matched John’s embrace.

John’s hands moved again, down, slow and sure, to curve around Sherlock’s buttocks. Sherlock jumped, gasped, pulled back.

‘Sorry.’ John raised his hands before himself. ‘Just—thought we’d reached that point. I’m not rushing you’, he assured with a shake of his head.

‘Sex.’ John had said it days ago, part of his rambling statement of affection. _‘I’m not as straight as I thought I was. Not when you’re in the room.’_ Sherlock had ignored it, had ignored most of that convoluted proclamation, and remembered only those neon words: _‘What I really feel for you is love.’_

‘Yes, sex’, John confirmed. ‘When you’re ready.’

‘You want to have sex with me?’

‘Well of course I do.’ John smiled. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

_Because_ _you could have been like me. You didn’t have to be normal like this. You’ve always been different, John. Why did you have to be normal now? Why couldn’t you have been like me? Why did you have to kiss me that day and say that you love me? Why did you say anything at all?_

‘You not gay?’ Sherlock tried.

‘I am on record as having said that, yes’, John nodded. ‘Repeatedly. And that was…an issue when I first thought about it. But then I thought about _it_ , about _you_ , and… Well, you know.’ John made a vague gesture.

‘I know what?’

John looked like he was rolling through pages of possible phrasings. Finally he blurted out, ‘It was arousing.’

Sherlock glanced at John’s crotch, then back to his face. John was blushing.

‘It was?  _I_ am?’

John relaxed and smiled again. ‘Yes, I get turned on thinking about _you_.’ He stepped closer, rested his hands lightly on Sherlock’s upper arms. ‘It’s very nice of you, but you don’t have to worry about me. I’m not going to flip out or change my mind or anything like that. I have thought about this. I know what I want.’

Sherlock knew what he wanted: John. Here, as they had been the past six days, with kisses and embraces and eyes dancing in the light. Not gone, or the kisses stopped because Sherlock could not be normal in this one thing.

And so he lowered his head, kissed John, and gave him his desires. Let himself be held, stroked, and caressed. Let himself be lead to John’s bedroom to be undressed with deliberate indulgence. Let himself be had however John wanted him. By midnight, freeing himself from musk-soaked sheets to wash away the mire of drying sweat and semen, Sherlock felt the veil of bliss he had lived in for those six days fall from him in tatters.

 

* * *

 

Amid the shopping that John was sorting and storing, Sherlock noted two boxes on the table: condoms. Beside them, a bottle of lubricant. In the past two weeks they had finished the already-open box of condoms and partial bottle in John’s bedside table. Was John stocking up or looking to multiply his pleasures?

John noted Sherlock’s gaze and grinned. ‘Looking for something?’ he asked.

Sherlock looked to John, then away. ‘No.’ He fumbled with the edges of his dressing gown.

John set down a can of beans and stepped toward him.

‘Sure about that?’ he asked low, smoothing the gown and clasping Sherlock’s hands.

‘You have shopping to put away.’

‘There’s nothing that can’t wait.’ He leaned in and kissed Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock edged backward but was stopped by the table at the back of his thighs. As he dipped slightly, John’s eyes widened fractionally. He looked at the table, the boxes, Sherlock’s dressing gown hanging slightly open, their hands still together.

Sherlock allowed the ensuing kiss, tried to make it soft and warm, but John would have otherwise. Soon his hands were inside Sherlock’s shirt, stroking over bare skin, and his lips were eager on Sherlock’s mouth, jaw, neck. He pressed himself close; Sherlock felt his growing arousal. Already this morning John’s kisses had extended down Sherlock’s stomach to his body’s betrayal, and after, Sherlock had had to stroke John until he released into his hand. Must he endure a second round?

He got a hand between them and opened John’s flies to rub at his erection. If he brought him to orgasm quickly, nothing else need happen. But John’s hands, too, were moving, one sliding lower into his pyjamas, between his buttocks, the other reaching for the condoms. He fumbled one-handed with the box, managed to get one out, then pulled away from kissing Sherlock and smiled eagerly. Sherlock’s hand moved faster.

John batted away that hand to unroll the condom onto his erection. As Sherlock felt his bottoms shoved down, he began to sink inside himself, to fall into the rhythm of his breath and the surge of his blood. John pushed him onto the table, untangled his clothes from his legs, and pulled down his own trousers and pants.

It was John’s grip on his legs, hoisting them up so he could press a blob of lubricant against Sherlock’s anus, that brought Sherlock back to the kitchen table where he lay. John held one leg up, set the other on his shoulder, and began to push himself in. Sherlock let his head fall back over the table’s edge and fought to shift his focus elsewhere, but he was too aware of John, hands on his thighs, using Sherlock’s legs as tools to push and pull them together, apart, together.

Sherlock was on his back, feet in the air, head dangling, and helpless, his final degradation; he could sink no lower. A last time he tried to absent his mind, sought escape in Fibonacci’s divine sequence to spiral outward and away from here, but he was drowning in John’s moans and muttered ecstasies.

At the last, to humiliation was added horror: his eyes burned and his chest convulsed and he knew he would cry. With no other recourse, he brought his knees back, planted his feet on John’s shoulders, and thrust him away.

John crashed into the wall, hobbled by the trousers about his legs and grabbing first at Sherlock to steady himself, then clutching at the countertop. Sherlock rolled to the side and slid off the table, back to the refrigerator and arms wrapping his dressing gown tight.

‘Sherlock! Alright, alright! What— What happened?’ He started to raise a hand toward Sherlock, then dropped it. ‘Are you alright? Did I hurt you?’

Sherlock breathed, just breathed and stared at John. This was wrong. How had he got this so wrong?

John drew up his pants and trousers, pulled off the condom, tucked himself in, all while assuring, ‘It’s alright. Just relax. Tell me what happened, Sherlock.’

‘I’m sorry.’ John looked surprised at the words. ‘Are you alright?’ Sherlock asked, taking a step forward. John backed away.

‘Me, yeah, fine.’ His hands rose in a placating gesture. ‘Will you tell me what just happened? What did I do?’

‘I’m sorry’, Sherlock repeated.

‘For what?’

Sherlock glanced at the wall John had slammed into.

‘Okay. It’s fine. I’m fine.’ He paused and took another pace back. ‘Can you tell me why you did that?’

_Because I can’t be normal like you. Because there’s something broken inside of me and I hate it when you touch me like that. I hate the way my body responds to you and I just want you to love me without all of this._

‘I didn’t want it’, Sherlock managed to get out.

John blanched, the flush of a minute ago drained from his face.

‘Okay.’ He swallowed with difficulty. ‘Okay, that’s— Alright.’ He tried a mangled smile. ‘Could you maybe tell me a little less violently the next time?’

Sherlock exploded. ‘I don’t want a next time! I didn’t want a first time! I never wanted this!’ He froze, then retreated to the refrigerator, closed his eyes. _Wrong._

‘I’m sorry’, he said again. Silence. He opened his eyes to see John’s face contorted in horror. ‘John.’

‘This?’ John’s breath sounded pained. ‘What? All of this? What do you mean, Sherlock?’

‘I didn’t mean that, John.’ Sherlock stood straight and stepped toward him, determined to salvage anything he could. ‘Forget it.’

‘No.’ John put out a hand to stop him. ‘No, you tell me what you meant, exactly what you meant.’

Sherlock didn’t know what to say fast enough. John saw his mind racing.

‘The truth, Sherlock. This is not a case, it’s not some game. You tell me the truth.’

Sherlock gave up the fight. ‘I don’t want to have sex’, he said quietly. ‘I’ve never wanted to have sex. Not just with you’, he added. ‘With anyone.’

‘Jesus.’ John slumped into a kitchen chair. ‘What have we— Why did you let me?’ He looked sick and doubled over. ‘Oh, God, Sherlock, what did I do to you?’

‘Nothing I didn’t agree to.’

‘You didn’t agree just now.’

‘I withdrew consent—once—and you stopped. It’s fine.’

‘That’s not fine, Sherlock. That’s rape.’ He choked on the word.

‘Don’t.’ Sherlock strode to his side, knelt beside him. ‘Don’t use that word. That’s not what it was’, he insisted.

‘I don’t know what else to call it.’

‘Then don’t call it anything! Forget about it. Forget that it happened.’

‘You think I can forget that? My brain doesn’t work that way, Sherlock. Yours might, but mine doesn’t. I can’t just erase the things I don’t want to think about.’

Sherlock tugged at John’s shoulder, tried to take his hand, to get him to look up, but John stood up and moved away.

‘Don’t’, he said. ‘You don’t want me to touch you.’

‘You’re not touching me; it’s the other way around. And I never said that. That’s not what I meant.’

‘“Stop it. Get off of me. Stop, please. Don’t touch me”’, John quoted. ‘Seems pretty plain to me.’

‘I don’t remember that.’

‘Yeah, well, you were probably too busy kicking me through the wall to know what you were saying.’

‘I’m sorry!’ Sherlock exclaimed. ‘I didn’t—’

‘Will you stop saying that?! It’s no more than I deserve. Far less.’

Sherlock could think of nothing more to say than apologies. This was his fault; he’d let this happen and got it all completely wrong. Now John knew the truth and there was no way back.

John looked helplessly to Sherlock, seemed searching for means to alter what had happened.

‘I can’t’, he said, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know. I can’t be here’, he declared, and strode to the door.

‘John, stay.’

‘I can’t.’ John grabbed his jacket and slammed the door shut.

 

* * *

 

Nine hours later, Sherlock sat in his sitting room chair. He had showered and dressed, put away the remaining shopping, left the condoms and lubricant untouched where they lay, made tea that he didn’t drink, tried some Mozart on his violin, and finally sat down to think. He approached the problem from the desired end and attempted to work backward to where the ideal could meet the actual. Each time he failed. Hour after hour, one possibility after another, but he could never bridge the gap. By the time the door downstairs thumped shut and he heard John’s step on the stairs, he had all but given up.

John’s footfalls were soft and slow, as if he were trying not to disturb anyone. Sherlock assumed from this that he would continue up to his room, pack his suitcase, and leave as quietly. Instead, the steps stopped at the door, and it opened.

‘Mind if I turn on the light?’ John asked after a moment.

‘No’, Sherlock replied.

John took several steps into the room, looked around, sat on the coffee table. He hunched forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped before him.

‘You showered right after we had sex’, he began slowly. ‘Every time. That’s pretty classic; I should have picked up on that. And looking back, I can see where times I thought you were initiating sex, you weren’t actually.’

Sherlock turned his head to look at him, but John looked down to his hands.

‘I had thought you were enjoying yourself, though. And whenever I asked, you said you were alright.’

‘My body responded despite my feelings, and I’m a good actor.’

Sherlock heard John’s deep draw of breath, the release, and waited through the following silence.

‘I have to know why, Sherlock.’

‘You said you loved me.’

John’s head came up, and he looked in disbelief. ‘Would you just throw your feelings aside and have sex with anyone that says they love you? Do me a favour and don’t to a bar on New Year’s Eve. Or any other night.’

‘Of course I wouldn’t, John’, Sherlock snapped, looking away. ‘I don’t love anyone else.’ There was another short silence.

‘That doesn’t make it much better. It probably shouldn’t make it better at all.’

Sherlock looked back at him with finally a hint of hope. ‘But it does make it better?’

‘It’s a reason. I think I can understand. A bit.’

‘You’ll stay?’ Could the ideal evolve from this shred of hope?

‘Is that what you want?’

‘Yes.’

John frowned at the immediate reply. ‘Sherlock, think. No’—he silenced Sherlock’s attempt to interrupt—‘think. After everything that’s happened, after what I did, can you actually want me here? Is that what you really want?’

Sherlock paused. ‘What I really want’, he said, standing and taking a step toward John, ‘is for you to kiss me.’

John boggled. ‘What? Sherlock, no, you don’t need to do anything—’

‘Does that mean I can’t _have_ anything?’

John stared at him, perplexed.

‘I just wanted you to keep loving me, John. That hasn’t changed. And I want your kisses. I want you holding me. Me holding you. I need to know, John. Can we do that? Can you love me without the sex?’

John sunk his face into his hands and held himself taut. After a moment, he spoke.

‘Sherlock, sex or no sex, living here or a thousand miles away, I am going to love you. So, yeah’, he smiled faintly. ‘I think we can do that.’


End file.
